


More Than I Thought I Did

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Figuring Things Out, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Panic Attacks, Sickness and Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28068048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Eddie narrows his eyes and stares at each of them in turn. “Ok. Anyone wanna tell me why I still feel out of the loop?”Richie has practice keeping secrets. He knows, when you’re being interrogated, you have to take a breath. Then come back with a joke. Like your ribs aren’t getting hammered.Bill has not.Fucking straight men.“No secrets!” he says frantically. “Right, Rich?”Jesus fucking Christ.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 122
Kudos: 286





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warning for vomiting and violent nightmares (yay, alliterative trauma). 
> 
> Also I feel like this might give the impression that I think Bill Denbrough is an idiot and I don't like him, when in reality Bill Denbrough is an idiot and I like him so much.

There’s no world in which Bill was Richie’s first choice to come out to.

But Richie has spent a lot of his time at the hospital crying. It’s funny. He’s never felt less self-conscious about tears.

And Bill, in his Bro-ish way, tries to comfort him. He sits next to Richie, currently watering his hands, and says, “It’s funny. Meeting up with old flames. Uh, confusing. Emotionally.”

Richie lifts his head to give him an incredulous look. Just to make sure he is, in fact, comparing his weird thing with Bev to Eddie being half-dead on a hospital slab.

“…Uh-huh.” says Richie.

Bill awkwardly plants a hand on his back and says, “Y’know we love you, Rich. No matter what.”

“No offence,” Richie says. “But that’s not like. My biggest concern right now.”

Bill blinks. “Fair enough.” He says eventually, and claps his hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Well. I’ll give you a minute.”

It’s a gift of a sort, because it makes Richie decide he doesn’t want to go through anything that awkward with the rest of the Losers.

“I’m gay,” he announces, out of the blue when they’re all sitting in the hospital hallway on a visit. He gestures vaguely at Eddie’s room. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

There’s a wave of positive responses that vaguely mists over Richie, like a dying hydrangea getting a little spritz of water. It's a nice gesture, but it's also a little pointless.

And then Eddie wakes up.

And suddenly, a lot of things are important.

Making the room look nice. Bringing Eddie candy that’s better than the vending machine shit. Being kinder to his friends. Working out what the fuck he’s going to do with his career.

Telling Eddie how he feels.

Maybe.

Hypothetically.

He tries telling the Losers that’s what he’s going to do, so that it’s harder to chicken out. The problem is, Bev has heard that so many times that eventually she just raises an eyebrow in sympathetic disbelief.

So he tells Bill instead. That puts some kind of time limit on it, at least, because he’s really not sure how long Bill can keep his mouth shut for.

“ _Now?”_ Bill looks nervous on his behalf, which is really not helping matters.

“Yeah,” Richie says , tapping on the arms of the hospital chair with false bravado. “He has like 5 minutes before physical therapy, right? So I have a clear escape route.”

“Alright,” Bill says.

“What?” Richie asks, now panicking. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No!” Bill says, pitch high, “Just. The words ‘escape route’ gave me pause, but-it’s a great idea, Richie.” He plasters on a terrifyingly fake smile.

“Oh my God. Ok. Christ.”

He heads up to Eddie’s room, clenching and unclenching his hands along the way.

Richie knocks the tune to _Banana Boat_ on the wall and invites himself in. “Hey Eds. Can we talk?”

Eddie’s in his wheelchair, on his phone. “I have 5 minutes spare. Can this wait?”

“You’re in luck! It’s a 3 minute conversation.”

“Fine. Go on.”

Richie clenches and unclenches his fingers again. He’s pretty sure he sprained one.

“I just. Thought. That I should tell you-”

“4 minutes,” Eddie says dryly, and that about locks Richie’s throat up completely.

He swallows three times, and then what comes out is, “So. I’m gay. The more you know. Anyway…” He starts backing towards the door. “I will let you get to therapy.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, expression considerably softer. “Come with me?”

“Sure,” Richie says, still backing away, hoping that if he gets to the corridor first he can send some kind of bat-signal to Bill to _be fucking cool._

No such luck.

“Dude!” Bill says as soon as he sees Richie. “How’d it-”

That’s when he spots Eddie following behind.

“-uh.”

Eddie rolls his eyes a little. “It’s fine. He told me.”

“He…told you?” Bill’s eyes glance between Richie and Eddie.

_No no no no no_ Richie tries to convey telepathically.

“So,” Bill continues, “are you guys-”

“That’s right!” Richie interrupts. “I told him I’m gayer than Liberace, and he said he could always tell from my impeccable fashion sense and personal hygiene.”

“Definitely not what I said-” Eddie starts.

“Oh!” says Bill. “I mean, that’s great, Rich.”

Eddie narrows his eyes and glances between the two of them. “Ok. Anyone wanna tell me why I still feel out of the loop?”

Richie has practice keeping secrets. He knows, when you’re being interrogated, you have to take a breath. Then come back with a joke. Like your ribs aren’t getting hammered.

Bill has not. _Fucking straight men._

“No secrets!” he says frantically. “Right, Rich?”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“Well,” Richie amends, “me and Sonia were going to wait to tell you this, but-”

“Beep beep,” Eddie says, eyes darkening.

“I’m…going to leave,” Bill says, and promptly turns heel, _the traitor._

Eddie raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“You’re gonna be late for physical therapy,” Richie says, getting a hand on his wheelchair.

“Richard Tozier. If you forcibly wheel me anywhere, I will cut off your hands.”

Richie lifts his hand. Waves it at Eddie as evidence. And also because he has this energy bubbling up inside, and he kind of feels like if he doesn’t move, he might cry.

“What is it?” Eddie asks, working himself up. “Is it about me?”

Richie opens his mouth. And closes it again.

Eddie’s eyebrows bound up. “Richie, what the fuck? You know I have issues with people keeping things from me! If-if it's a health thing-Oh my God, are they keeping something from me?”

“No! You’re gonna be fine, Eddie.”

“Is it Myra?” Eddie asks. “Did she-is she leaving?”

“No.” Richie’s starting to feel warm and claustrophobic. He’s not sure Eddie’s ever going to stop asking. “I don’t know. Why would she tell _me_ that?”

“My job,” Eddie says with certainty. “Am I fired?” He takes a ragged breath. “Is It still out there? Oh God. Bowers? Am I being charged? Are _you_ being charged? _Fuck_ , Richie just tell me-”

Richie knows what’s going to happen for about 3 seconds before it happens. Just makes it to a bin before he’s kneeling down to cough up his lunch, grey and acrid. There’s no _good_ food to puke up, but hospital jelly is one of the worst.

At least it stops Eddie for 3 seconds.

“Richie.” he says, somewhere between concerned and appalled. “What….”

Richie stands up. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and watches Eddie flinch at that. “I need air.” He announces, and walks. Keeps walking until he makes his way outside. Sits on a kerb and rests his head in his hands, forcing himself to take deep breaths of the fresh air so he doesn’t pass out. It’s so hot. When did it get so hot?

He stays there for a long time.

Bev joins him eventually. He doesn’t look up, but he can smell her perfume. Lime and coconut.

“Eddie sent me,” she says. “After he interrogated me about whether you were being arrested? It was an odd conversation.” She hands him a water bottle. “He also told me to give you this.”

Richie huffs a laugh. He doesn’t know why. It’s just very Eddie. He lifts his head to take a few swigs.

“Do you want to talk to me?” Bev asks. “Or should I get Eddie?”

“Don’t get Eddie,” Richie says. “In fact, if you could protect me from being alone with him for the next year, that would be ideal.”

“He made threats on your life?” Bev guesses, matter-of-factly.

“Worse,” he says. “On my _dignity_.” He sets it up, so Bev can knock it down with a _You have dignity?_

Instead, she says, “I didn’t realise you two were already hooking up.” Richie snorts in surprise.

“We’re not,” Richie says after a moment. “Possibly ever. That would involve saying something, and I, uh. I think I’m just not a brave person. And if facing a clown couldn’t change that, there’s nothing that can, so. Fuck it, I guess.” He takes another swig. Wishes it was whisky.

There’s a short silence. “Richie. Had you told anyone you were gay? Before us.”

“That wasn’t bravery.” Richie says, sensing where she’s going. “That was being beyond giving a fuck.”

“Ok,” Bev says. “So you need to decide if you give more of a fuck about _Eddie_ , or your fears.”

He wants to argue that it’s more complicated than that, but maybe it’s not, really. Maybe it’s a choice between taking a risk and the certainty he’s gonna miss someone for the next 40 years.

The Losers huddle around Eddie’s bed for his last night in hospital. It’s weird, now that he can move around, that they’re still crouching by his bedside each night like he’s a sick Victorian child. But it’s become a tradition at this point.

They say their goodbyes, peeling off one by one, and Richie’s not sure what his own choice is, whether he’s going to leave, or speak up. Then Eddie makes the decision for him. “Rich? Can you stay a minute?”

“Of course,’ Richie says. Plasters on his most relaxed smile, and goes to sit by his bed.

“I was thinking about yesterday,” Eddie says. “And. You’ve never kept anything from me that I needed to know. Anything that could’ve hurt me. So. Whatever it was, you don’t have to tell me.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Also, I don’t want you to puke in front of me again.”

Richie feels the tension in his shoulders dissipate. “Uh-oh,” he says. “I had 3 creaming sodas for lunch today.”

Eddie crinkles his nose and says, “You should keep a sickness bag around your neck, permanently. Like a puke bib. Or reverse feeding trough.”

“Why the fuck are you a risk analyst with ideas like this, Edward?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his scar. He lazily shoves at Richie’s shoulder.

“Eds.” Richie says cautiously. “What are your plans after this?”

Eddie’s mouth flattens out. “Finding an excuse to tell Myra, and. Going back, I guess.”

_Really?_ Richie doesn’t ask. _The woman you removed as your emergency contact? The woman you’ve been texting fabricated excuses to for the last week? That Myra?_

“We’re in the same area,” Eddie says brightening up a little. “You should come by. Myra will make you…well, I’ll be honest, it’ll probably be a salad, but it’ll be a good salad.”

It feels like the tiny possibility that everything would just work itself out is crumbling like charcoal. It throws Richie off his usual _deny deny deny_ kilter. _Nothing to lose,_ he thinks, and says, “I can’t-I can’t _have dinners with you and Myra_.”

Eddie rolls his eyes a little, like this is just Richie, being difficult as usual. “What, you only eat at Olive Garden?”

Richie stares at him. He had considered the possibility (probability) that Eddie wouldn’t feel the same. Or would, but would be so wrapped up in denial to reciprocate. But _not knowing?_ Richie had always assumed he’d at least had a suspicion. That their friendship was being kept afloat by the powers of selective ignorance.

“Eddie.” _Is he actually doing this?_ He pictures the alternative, eating wilted kale fortnightly, Myra keeping her eyes on him, keeping his eyes on Eddie. Being cuckolded without the benefits of an actual fucking relationship. Neither the Other Woman or the Main Squeeze, just The Creep Who’s Obsessed with my Husband.

He’s so fucking sick of that type of shame.

“I’m fucking. In love with you, man.”

_Great. Great speech._

There’s a silence. Richie needs to fill it. “That was the big secret, by the way. I’m not-I’m not keeping another bombshell stored up.”

Eddie stares at him. Blankly, like he’s still registering. His mouth opens a little, and closes again. He swallows, and says, almost pleadingly, “Richie. I’m not. Good at this.”

Richie turns his head to the door. It’s not subtle at all, but he needs a second of not looking at Eddie. Last chance crushed by the fucking steel-toed boot of reality.

He nods, hopes it’s a substitute for _I understand, it’s ok_ , because he knows there’s a cap on the number of words he can say without crying, and he really doesn’t want to reach that limit.

He’s nodding like a fucking bobblehead now, but movement is a distraction, keeps the burn of his eyes from sinking in.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says miserably, and _oh, that hurts more._

“It’s ok,” Richie manages. “I didn’t think I was playing a winning game.”

_Except he had, for a second, because they had fucking won, and Richie had started to trick himself into thinking he might be a winner._

“Anyway,” Richie says. “I better…” he motions to the door.

“Wait,” Eddie says. His eyes are watering too, which is bizarre, and sort of funny, in a way Richie might be able to make a bit about if it ever stops hurting. “Shouldn’t we. Talk about this, or something?”

“You can send me a long, follow-up email,” Richie says, backing towards the door. “All your questions alphabetised.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, calling after him now. “I really. I _really_ want us to stay friends. Please don’t just…disappear on me, when you get home.”

“I won’t,” says Richie, and he’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth.

Eddie’s so preoccupied, driving home, that he doesn’t even realise he has a huge fucking scar on his face to explain until he’s 10 minutes from his house.

He’d texted Myra an _old_ _friend’s funeral_ excuse, and given her vague and ambiguous updates over the next week, responding to about one of every 12 of her messages. Never had he mentioned the stab wound in his face.

_It was an old friend’s funeral. There were shovels lying about. I fell on a shovel._

It’s not a _good_ excuse, but it does seem like the least limiting.

Say it was a kitchen accident and he gets locked out of cooking. Say it was a shaving accident and he’ll have to grow a tree-man beard. Say it was a mugging and he’s pretty sure Myra will try to keep him inside the house for at least the next decade.

Say it was a shovel and he…won’t have to clean the driveway in the Winter? He can deal with that. He can definitely deal with that.

He hasn’t texted Myra to tell her he’s coming home. He thinks he’s kinda hoping to catch her in the middle of some transgression, lever some of the trouble he’s in onto her.

It’s fucked. He feels increasingly aware of how fucked it is, having spent the last few days with six people he loves. He can’t picture Ben doing this to Bev, or Bev to Ben, or Richie-

He frowns, and tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

Myra complains at him for a long time.

He can’t really blame her, but he also can’t bring himself to feel a huge amount of remorse.

Then she sits him down on their bed, brushes scar cream over his cheek with the pad of her thumb, and he remembers why they started doing this in the first place. Two people in need of comfort, no one else willing to give it to them.

_Now_ , he thinks, _he has those people. Five of them._ _All of them distant, though._

And he doesn’t know if Myra does. Her sister in Minnesota and all her brunch friends the subject of multiple and varied complaints.

And Eddie doesn’t exactly believe in the sanctity of marriage, unbreakable vows or holy unions, no matter how aggressively Myra’s sister put those ideas forward in her maid-of-honour speech. But he does believe in loyalty.

More than ever, after everything he’s been through, he believes in repaying people. And one thing he can say for Myra is that she’s definitely always been _there_ for him.

So he’s going to try to do the same for her.

That night, Eddie dreams that he’s the leper. Reaching into the mirror, and taking himself by the neck.


	2. Chapter 2

Apart from his regularly-scheduled nightmares, things are going ok. Eddie is on some kind of work probation for disappearing for a week, but he hasn’t been summarily fired, and he takes that as a win.

Things are stable, with Myra. Eddie thinks she’s trying to extend an olive branch, giving him a little more freedom. Worrying a little less. He tries to extend one in return, but it’s a little difficult when everything that could be considered a treat, Myra considers a moral failing.

Eventually, he decides that buckwheat pancakes will fly, and gets up early on Saturday morning to make them for her.

She does smile, when she sees them. Then she says, “I don’t know how I feel about you in my kitchen,” like it’s a joke.

Eddie not so sure it’s a joke.

He never has to explain the scars on his stomach, because Myra never sees them.

Eddie doesn't really mind.

He reads Myra’s Mills & Boone novels sometimes, though he won’t admit it. That’s enough for him, really, the tension between two archetypes. He never really involves himself in fantasies. Wouldn’t know where to start.

But it’s fine. He gets used to not seeing red balloons and Pomeranians. Goes to work, comes home to a cooked dinner, and gets to check out his social media while they watch something on TV.

That’s the best part of his day, seeing the Losers’ updates.

He manages to give Richie one week of space before he’s missing him painfully.

So on Friday evening, he texts him a link to a site called _Bagels that Look Like Moby_ , and writes, _Saw this and thought of you._

 _Eddie!!!!!_ He gets in response, almost immediately. _This is the greatest gift I’ve ever received._

Eddie grins at his phone.

“Something funny?” Myra asks from across the couch. Not spiteful, but curious.

“Just Richie,” he says. Myra learnt Richie’s name by heart within two days of Eddie being at home.

 _How have you been?_ He writes.

 _I’m taking a week off,_ Richie writes. _I think I deserve it._

Eddie feels instantly guilty, until he realises Richie probably means _because of the almost-dying thing,_ not _because you rejected me._

 _You do_ , he writes. _But it’s good to do something productive each day._ He knows how Richie gets when he wallows.

 _Tell me more about how to maximise my productivity, it really gets me going,_ Richie responds.

Eddie’s in the middle of formulating a withering response, when _Beep beep?_ appears underneath.

Eddie frowns.

 _Please don’t start policing the shit you say to me_ , he writes after a minute. _I can’t think of anything more frightening than you putting actual thought into the shit you say._

 _Then I will continue to word-vomit all over you,_ Richie writes.

Eddie’s about to respond when Myra asks, “Did you call the repairman about the fridge, Eddie?” It’s been acting up, lately.”

“I bought a replacement gasket,” Eddie says. “I’ll fix it tonight.”

“I threw that out,” Myra says off-handedly. “I told you, Eddie, it’s not safe.” She points to his cheek. “You dent the car, you hurt yourself, and you want me to believe you have the wherewithal to handle heavy machinery right now?”

Eddie stares at her. “Heavy mach-It’s a _fridge_. Myra, it’s one of the safest DIYs you can do-”

“You couldn’t just buy a Ferrari for your mid-life crisis? You have to indulge this-this _death-wish_ you suddenly have-”

“Again! It’s a fridge!”

“You know, men have hormone changes at your age. Mood swings, acting out. Maybe we should take you to a doct-”

“I want a divorce.” Eddie says.

He frowns.

That was not what he meant to say.

What he meant to say was _I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor._

Myra stares at him. “That’s not funny, Eddie.”

He has an out. He has an out for the thing he didn’t even mean to say.

But he has that feeling you get, after you brace your arms against something. And then it’s gone, and your limbs float of their own accord, helium-filled and free.

“It’s not a joke.” he says.

You’re probably not supposed to announce your divorce before you talk to a lawyer, but hey.

It’s not the worst mistake Eddie’s ever made.


	3. Chapter 3

Bev calls as soon as he announces his divorce in the group chat. She’s overflowing with good advice.

“Oh,” she says, with forced lightness, as soon as the call starts wrapping up. “Uh, Richie told me what happened with you two. Just thought I’d let you know. In case you were worried about his privacy. You can talk to me.”

Eddie’s a little dumbfounded by the fact that he told Bev, and he’s not sure why. He thinks it’s just the confirmation that this is an actual _thing_ for Richie, and not like, a week-long crush.

“Thanks. But uh. I’m not really the one who got screwed over.”

“You didn’t screw anyone over. And it’s ok if you’re feeling uncomfortable, or confused, or…whatever. Whatever you feel is ok.”

“I’m fine.” Eddie says. “…Is Richie fine?”

“He’s doing ok.”

“Ok.” The questions start to pile up. “Because I don’t know if I’m supposed to be contacting him _more,_ or _less_. I want to give him his space, but I don’t want him to think I’m _uncomfortable_ , and I don’t know the rules of this-”

“There aren’t any rules,” Bev says. She pauses. “Listen, I don’t t know what Richie _wants_ , but I think if you give him a little bit of space, he’s going to have an easier time getting past this.”

_That was not the answer Eddie wanted._

“Right.” he says. “Thanks Bev. Oh.” Another question occurs to him. “Did you…know about Richie. Before he told you?”

“Summer of 89,” she says. “I had my suspicions.”

“In _high school?”_

There’s a weighty pause. Eddie barrels on before she can backtrack. “Did he have a crush on someone?”

“Eddie,” Bev says, sounding amused. “You’re fishing.”

“I’m not fishing!” Eddie protests. _He’s totally fishing._ “I’m just curious. I mean, like-wondering. I’m just wondering.”

“Mm-hmm.” says Bev, doubtfully. She does not offer up any more information.

“Ok,” Eddie says sulkily. “Well, thank you for the non-conversation. And the advice,” he adds a little guiltily. "That was actually helpful.”

“Anytime,” Bev says. “Hey, keep me updated on if the no-fault thing works out.”

“Will do.”

The no-fault thing does work out. Eventually.

Eddie is not used to living alone.

The first thing he does is make lasagne. With full-fat cheese and everything. He feels a rush of adrenaline that rapidly devolves into him sitting on the floor, wondering what happens if he has a heart attack, if no one finds his body for at least a week.

It’s a mixed bag.

His first thought, whenever he ends up googling something like _detergent in eye cause blindess???_ is _Y_ _ou should call Richie._ Except he’s actually trying to take Bev’s advice, and give him some space.

Not too much space. He still calls once a week.

He ends up filling his notes app with all the things he wants to tell Richie in between. When he reads them back, he ends up deleting half of them, things that seemed vital at the time but now, it is clear, are not. Things like:

_saw a dalmation with a spot that looked like another dalmation_

_someone at the gym is named Katniss_

_fuck you for saying I should try fruity pebbles. My teeth are going to fall out_

Real life-changing shit.

_Like a divorce._

That’s the one thing they don’t really talk about. Eddie’s love life, or lack thereof, seems like something they should steer clear of. He’s trying to keep in mind, theoretically, that it could hurt Richie, although the thought is still bizarre to him.

It’s not like Eddie has a low opinion of himself.

He knows, from firsthand experience of the people he works with, that he’s of above average intelligence. Knows he’s probably fitter and healthier than most of them as well. Thinks, after Derry, that against all odds, he might also be _brave_. Never thought of himself as particularly kind, or funny, but sometimes being with his friends makes him feel like he’s both.

But he’s realistic. He knows he’s not charismatic, or, down-to-earth, or even particularly likeable. He knows he’s never, ever, inspired _passion_ in someone.

Up until Richie.

Richie, who _is_ charismatic, and down-to-earth, and likeable. Richie, who could probably make anyone fall in love with him within the span of 15 minutes, is, apparently, in love with him.

It’s very confusing. _Trauma is a breeding ground for weird feelings_ , he reasons. It’s not like he didn’t have his share, when the blood was drifting off them, into the quarry-

Although that doesn’t explain why Richie hasn’t developed a crush on Mike. Or Ben, _Jesus_ , _surely everyone would guess Ben, from the way Richie talks about him._

He finds himself trying to figure out what, exactly, Richie might see in him.

Remembers the many times Richie’s mentioned his dimples, and spends 15 minutes trying out different smiles in the mirror. Trying to divine which, if any, are attractive.

Murmurs, “What the fuck am I doing?” to his reflection, promises not to indulge his narcissism again, and ends up there again tomorrow.

He knows he should want Richie to move on. But at 3 am in his apartment, when he’s wondering if the branches rustling against his window are actually clown claws, thinking _someone out there loves me_ makes him feel safe enough to close his eyes for a minute.

Which makes him feel guilty all over again. He knows Richie’s not _just_ his safety blanket, but he _is_ the human equivalent of a Snuggie. Comforting, in a déclassé kind of way. The sort of person people pretend they’re not drawn to, up until you find 6 DVDs of his stand-up in their house.

What he should want, what a good friend would want, is for Richie to find someone who has the Trashmouth Collection up on their mantelpiece.

What he wants is for him to stay single, just a little bit longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for slurs.

There comes a point where Eddie has to admit that trying to propel his own love life forward may be healthier than vying to be his friends’ number 1 priority for the rest of time. The problem is, he doesn’t particularly want to.

So he goes the low-effort route. Curled up in his bed at 12 am, he makes a dating profile, cringing when all he sees are 20 year-olds. _In case I didn’t feel bad enough about being a 41 year-old divorcee on a dating app. We just thought we’d make it obvious. This isn’t for people like you._

When he finds the age setting, it feels heaven-sent.

He spends half an hour looking through profiles, not feeling much of anything. He makes himself like a profile whenever he thinks, objectively, _We’d get along._

Bored, he puts his phone on his bedside table, and tries to sleep. Or rather, initiates the 30 minutes of internal monologue that happens every time his head hits the pillow.

He thinks about Richie, coming out at 40, and whatever vague, confusing thing Bill and Mike have going on, and thinks, _Maybe this is a good time to re-evaluate what I’m looking for._

_Maybe I’m not straight_ , he makes himself think, even as his shoulders hike up and his breathing gets a little shallower.

Always felt such an objection to it, on principle, that he couldn’t be what people yelled at him. Couldn’t say, _Hey, I guess you were right. The fact that I comb my hair every once in a fucking while makes me a faggot._

That Thursday night, he ends up at a bar with rainbow flags in the window.

He’s not looking to get picked up. He figures going on a weeknight will eliminate that particular threat.

He just wants to dip his toe in the water. With floaties on, and a Pina Colada in hand.

It’s not as quiet as he thought it would be for a Thursday. _Don’t you people have jobs?_ he wants to ask the couples on the dancefloor. But instead, he sits at the bar in silence.

“Eddie?”

Eddie’s head whips around to see Richie.

He’s about to say _This isn’t what it looks like_ , when he realises it probably is, in fact, what it looks like.

The edge of a smile appears on Richie’s face. “This is a gay bar, Eddie. The bingo hall is next door.”

“Fuck off,” says Eddie, with a roll of his eyes. He’s hyperaware that he’s probably supposed to say something now, some kind of explanation, but he’s not entirely sure where to start.

Luckily, Richie must take pity on him, because eventually he cocks his head towards the stool next to Eddie and says. “Can I sit? Or are you uh, on the prowl?”

“Sit,” says Eddie. He’s suddenly feeling nervous, feeling like he took a step before he was ready.

And Richie’s warm hand is on his back just as quick, thumb brushing left and right.

“You’re good, man. I shouldn’t have-You’re allowed to be here.”

Eddie gives him a quick nod. He counts his breaths in his head.

Richie’s hand only moves when he’s breathing normally again. It’s weird, given how good the both of them are at winding each other up, that Richie also knows exactly how to wind him down.

“Are you…” Eddie starts. He refuses to say the words _on the prowl_. “Meeting someone?”

“I was,” Richie says. “Looks like I’ve been stood up.”

“Asshole.”

Richie laughs.

“Listen,” Eddie says. “I-I feel like I should explain.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I know, in Derry, I implied that I wasn’t-”

“Eds.” Richie says, and gives an awkward laugh. “I’m aware that the majority of gay men are not into me. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

There’s no good way to say what Eddie wants to say. Can’t say _it’s not that I’m not into you_ , without implying too much. When the truth Is, Eddie has no idea what he’s into. After years of tricking himself he was happy in a broken marriage, Eddie doesn’t really feel equipped to make those kinds of judgements. And he really doesn’t want to throw his deepest friendship under the train in pursuit of an identity.

He just needs time.

All he says is, “I didn’t even know. That I was. Back then.”

“Oh.” says Richie. “Congratulations?”

Eddie huffs a laugh. “Thanks.” He’s struck by a thought. “Did you always know?”

“About me?” Richie asks. “Or you?” Because the answer’s yes.”

Eddie shoves at him, and Richie braces himself, pre-emptively. Eddie itches to ask _any childhood crushes?_ He swallows it down.

Instead, he asks, “How do you deal with everyone who ever bullied you being right?”

Richie looks at him for a moment. “You know there was also a shit-ton of graffiti about Stan being a fucking nerd. Didn’t stop him carting massive bird puzzles around in his backpack.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it? I just-the people who made our life hell aren’t still thinking about us, I guarantee it. At some point we need to stop obsessing over them. I’m halfway through my life-”

“That’s an optimistic estimate for someone who still refuses to eat probiotics.”

Richie laughs. “I’m never gonna eat your fucking kefir, Eddie, give it up. Anyway, I’m _95%_ of the way through my life, apparently. I figured it was time to live for myself.” He pauses. “I don’t mean to make it sound like I have my shit together, by the way. I super don’t. I’m just. Trying.”

Eddie takes a swig of his cocktail. “You’re doing well.”

Richie gives him a bashful smile.

“I’m 5 minutes late,” a deep voice interrupts. “You found a replacement already?” He sounds like he’s joking.

Eddie turns to see a tall blonde. Attractive in a way that makes it seem like he’s sold a bit of his soul.

Richie gives him a smile. “Eddie’s an old friend. Eddie, this is Clark”

“Ah,” Clark says, eyes flicking between them. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Nope,” Richie says, quickly.

“Wow,” the guy says, faux-impressed. “Gay friends who haven’t fucked yet. What, did one of you get rejected?”

There’s a brief, tense silence.

It’s a joke. And Eddie probably doesn’t have any right to jump on the guy for it, not when he’s only been out for about 5 minutes and he’s pretty much the poster boy for internalised homophobia, but he feels a surge of protectiveness over Richie.

And this guy just _irks_ him.

“Let me guess,” Eddie says, raising an eyebrow. “You think straight men and women can’t be friends? And bisexuals fuck everything in sight?”

The guy gives him a grin, wolfish. “What are you drinking, man?” he asks, pointing at his glass. “An Appletini? You getting fired up on Appletinis?”

“Why do I feel like the third wheel?” Richie asks, making the _probably wise_ decision to jump in before Eddie can tell this guy to go fuck himself. “Is anyone gonna direct some of this sexual tension my way?”

Eddie feels instantly guilty. He rejected Richie, and now he’s fucking his chances of hitting it off with anyone else.

He breathes out, takes a swig of his drink ( _It’s a_ _Pina Colada, asshole_ ), and stands up. “I’m gonna head off,” he says, tries to make it sound less bitter. “Have fun.”

“This celibate friendship makes a lot more sense to me,” he hears Clark say as he walks away. “It’s pretty clear he’s never been fucked.”

Eddie bites down on his bottom lip and curls his nails into his fists until he can feel dozens of stinging points of pain. Pretends that Clark can feel them too. And forces himself to walk away.

“Hey man,” he hears Richie say back, quieter. “Can we not?”

It’s a pretty meek defence, but what the fuck does he expect, honestly? He’s not Richie’s boyfriend. This asshole is Richie’s boyfriend. Or someone that Richie is going to fuck. Or someone that’s going to fuck Richie.

Or something else entirely, because he’s 40 years old and, _as is apparently fucking evident_ , has barely been fucked, and has _no fucking idea_ how any of this works.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for dubcon (but no sex), sexual health, and needles.

Eddie has deleted and rewritten variations on the text _You get tested, right?_ eight times at this point.

He knows he can’t send it. It’s the type of text Richie would find ridiculous, at best, and offensive at worst. He’s also very aware that the last time Richie took one of Eddie’s health concerns to heart was never.

It’s also probably not fair that Eddie decided this Clark guy was a microbial breeding ground the second he decided he didn’t like him. He knows this is more about his own neuroticism than a genuine threat.

But he also doesn’t know how to put that thought to rest without asking. He’s been mentally going through the possibilities, everything they could’ve done that night, along with the associated statistical likelihood of infection.

It’s been a weird morning.

He sends the text.

 _Eddie_ , he gets back almost immediately. _This is such an ominous text to receive out of the blue._

_Are you about to ask me for a test tube baby?_

Eddie sighs.

_Can you answer the question?_

Richie writes back,

_I get tested and use (Magnum XXX) (extra-thick) (cherry-flavoured) protection_

_Gross._ Eddie writes.

_Thanks._

_Is this going into a Losers’ Sexual Health Database?_ Richie replies.

_Can you tell me what’s in Stan’s column?_

_I’m convinced he’s whatever the bird equivalent of a furry is_

Eddie pauses. There’s no way he’d ever make enquiries into the sex lives of any of the Losers except Richie. He’s pretty sure Richie knows this. But he is a little worried that Richie is going to badger him until he admits _No, I just had a need to know your sexual health status, specifically._

_Can I call?_ He writes. He wants to change the topic and get something else off his chest in the process.

 _Hold on,_ Richie writes. _I put a (Magnum XXX) (extra-thick) (cherry-flavoured) condom over my phone for sexting purposes. It makes pushing the buttons kinda difficult._

And then Eddie’s phone lights up.

“Hey. I’m sorry about yesterday,” Eddie says, shamelessly fishing for information. “If I made things awkward between you and your…boyfriend?”

Richie barks a laugh from the end of the line. “You’re fine. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Thank Christ,” Eddie says, and Richie huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, he’s not really my kind of mean.”

Richie swallows the last word, like he’s realising it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Eddie feels the frantic need to say something to smooth things over. He’s pretty sure the silence has gone on too long to skate right over it, and the only alternative is to dive in.

“If that’s a veiled criticism about me, I won’t hear it, and I won’t respond to it.”

Richie barks a relieved _(_ _delighted?)_ laugh. “Of course not,” he says. “Everyone knows you’re a paragon of virtue.”

Eddie prickles. _Paragon of virtue_ sounds a lot like _never been fucked_ and he starts to wonder if he’s becoming an in-joke, between Richie and Clark.

Then he hears a confused “…Eds?” and he realises he might be reading into things, a little.

“I didn’t want to mention it, but I _did_ give two dollars to a homeless man this morning,” he says, because he thinks it might make Richie laugh again.

“An angel walks among us.”

There’s a brief pause, then Richie, straight for the gut, says, “Are you gonna check if I have an STI every time I have sex with someone you don’t like?”

Eddie rubs a hand over his forehead. “Maybe,” he admits. “Is that a problem?”

There’s another pause. “No.” Richie says. “Just checking.”

Eddie needs to go on a date.

He needs to go on a date with a man, because he’s having swirling, confusing messes of feelings about Richie, and unrepentantly harassing him about his sex life, and he needs to figure out if these are capital-F Feelings, or if he’s just a repressed horny monster.

He downloads about 6 dating apps and tries them all out. He ignores the boring profiles, which, it seems, are 94% of them.

By the time he’s responding to a pick-up line with _WRITE SOME ORIGINAL MATERIAL, DICKWEED_ ¸ he thinks maybe he should take a break.

But then he matches with someone who looks…nice? Brown eyes. Curly brown hair. A teacher, apparently, so probably not a murderer. Or a murderer with a unique backstory, at least.

His first message to Eddie is:

_Thank you for being the first profile I’ve seen all day that didn’t mention the beach_

_The playground is right outside my classroom_

_I’m so fucking sick of sand_

_Sand is the WORST_ , Eddie writes back. He can hear Richie saying something about Anakin Skywalker in his head, but he waves it away. He’s pretty sure opinions on sand are the most he has in common with anyone on this app anyway.

It doesn't take long before Aaron asks him out. Which feels _soon_ , but Eddie wants soon, right? _Yeah. This is a good thing._

Eddie is ping-ponging. Gets a little too comfortable ranting about something, and then Aaron blinks at him, wide-eyed, and Eddie gets self-conscious and stilted again, stabbing at his salad.

But he must do something right, because Aaron asks, “Your place?” at the end of the night. Hands half-stuffed into his jean pockets, just like Richie does.

He so aggressively redirects his thoughts away from Richie that he ends up forgetting what the question was, and agreeing reflexively.

 _Right,_ he remembers, as Aaron hails a taxi. _Sex._

_You want this,_ Eddie tells himself, watching his fingers shake as he takes the wine glasses over to the couch. _You’re into this._

Aaron spends 2 seconds pretending to give a shit about the wine, before he puts his glass on the table, and leans in to kiss Eddie.

Eddie’s not really feeling anything beyond the mechanical sensations. Wet mouth. Cold nose. Aaron's wearing one of those colognes that work on the principle that muskiness is manliness, and Eddie feels a little suffocated by it.

Then Aaron’s leaning over him, pushing him against the couch. There’s no aggression in it, but Eddie still finds it suffocating, can still feel his pulse thrum.

He gags when a tongue flicks up the slope of his neck. But that goes unnoticed, cold fingers inching under Eddie’s button-up shirt. Stubble pricks at his neck and he thinks of needles, needles in hospitals, needles in doctor's offices, needles scattered around Derry, the ones Eddie was certain he'd step on, the ones that could make him even sicker, the ones that could kill him-

Aaron bites at his shoulder.

As Eddie flinches his head bangs, loudly, against the arm of the couch. He winces.

“Shit,” Aaron asks, half-giggling. “Are you ok, man?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and scoots to the end of the couch. He can feel the pressure in his chest mounting. “Uh-huh. I just. Uh.” He gestures vaguely. “I don’t think this is gonna happen. Today. Sorry.”

He takes a deep breath. In for 4, out for 8.

Aaron’s eyebrows are steadily rising. “Should I…go?” he asks.

“Yep.” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”

He hears the door close. A little loudly.

Eddie probably didn’t handle that as well as he could’ve but he’s finding it difficult to care, breaths getting trapped in his chest.

On instinct, he fumbles for his inhaler. Finds his phone instead, follows the path of least resistance, and dials Richie’s number.

“Hey Eds. What's up?"

Eddie lets out a breath.

“Richie.” He gets out. “Can you just talk to me? About your day, or something?”

“Eddie, you’re in for a treat. I lost my Netflix password so I had to watch real TV all day. It was horrible-”

Eddie listens to him talk about daytime TV for 10 minutes, until his heart rate is slowing. “Wait,” he says, brain fog clearing. “You know you can just get them to send you a link? To change your password?”

“…I lost my email password too,” Richie says, and it draws a laugh from Eddie, one that seems to clear his chest on the way out.

“You feeling better, Eds?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Fine. I uh. I think I just had an asthma attack. From the asthma I don’t have?”

“Panic attack,” Richie says offhandedly.

“Huh?”

“I get something similar. I mean, less breathing, more…puking, so I might be talking out of my ass here, but. You might as well ask a doctor, right? Sorry, I was going to say something in Derry, but uh. There was a lot going on.”

“Right.” Eddie says, feeling very seen. “Thanks Rich. I’ll check it out.”

“You know what caused it?”

“Nope!” Eddie responds, a little too enthusiastically.

“Be honest. Was it someone messing up the supermarket’s flaxseed display?”

“That’s it,” Eddie says, injecting as much disdain as possible into his tone. “You got it in one.”

Richie laughs, airy and delighted.

Eddie reflexively holds the phone closer, closing his eyes and breathing it in.

Impulsively, he says, “I’m thinking of organising a weekend away. With all the Losers. Are you in?”

“Where are we going?”

“Uh. I don’t know yet.”

“Ok,” Richie says, with the edge of a laugh. “When are you thinking?”

“Well,” Eddie says, cringing a little. “When works for you?”

“Give me a couple weeks notice and I can get out of doing weekend shows.”

“Ok,” Eddie says, looking forward to something for the first time in a long time. “I’ll let you know.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for reference to home intruders and Eddie getting very drunk.

Eddie ends up booking a cabin in the mountains.

He realises, as soon as he exits his car, that 60 degrees seems a lot hotter on a computer screen than it does in person.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and makes his way inside. The door is unlocked, and the lockbox is open, so he assumes someone’s already arrived.

“…Hello?” he calls out, wiping his feet on the mat. Richie comes bounding down the stairs, grinning.

Eddie pointedly locks the door behind him. “Are you trying to get murdered?”

“Are you offering?” Richie asks. “You did lure me to an abandoned cabin in the woods.”

“I’d have easier ways. Throwing a pizza box onto a motorway. Chucking a penny down a well-”

“Stop, stop!” Richie says, grinning and clutching at his heart. “I’m already dead!”

Eddie lets himself smile. “I missed you, man,” he says, watching Richie’s smile softens around the edges.

Eddie steps forward, about to go in for the hug, when they’re both distracted by a knock on the door.

Eddie opens it to find an indignant-looking Bill.

“Why did you lock me out?” he asks, frowning at them.

“ _Great_ question, Bill.”

“Oh my God.” Eddie scowls. “I can’t _believe_ , after _everything we’ve experienced,_ you two are _this_ blasé about home security.”

“I can’t believe your response to the supernatural embodiment of pure evil is _deadlocks_ ,” Richie counters, and before Eddie can make the obvious arguments like _Robbers exist too you dumb piece of shit,_ he adds, “Big Bill. There’s a foosball table upstairs. You in?”

“Prepare to get your ass handed to you, Tozier.”

“Eddie, you wanna cheer from the sidelines? I’m sure we can find pompoms somewhere.”

“No thanks,” Eddie says, flipping him the bird. “I’m gonna unpack. And find the thermostat.”

Much to Eddie’s chagrin, they all end up watching Richie and Bill’s umpteenth game.

For the first time, Eddie feels slightly afraid of Bev. She yells and screams like she’s watching an actual match.

Ben and Mike seem vaguely amused. Stan just stays on his phone.

“Eds,” Richie pipes up. “I’m winning, and yet there’s a conspicuous absence of cheering.”

“It’s a game that rewards wrist reflexes,” Eddie says. “I’m not cheering for that.”

Richie grins, looking up at him. He’s about to open his mouth when Bill scores.

“No! Saboteurs!” Richie yells. “Conspirateurs!”

“Fuck yeah!” Bill says, fist-pumping. “Best of seven?”

“Maybe we could start thinking about dinner, first?” Stan asks hopefully.

“I brought pasta, rice, tortillas, vegetables, polenta and chicken.” Eddie says. “What do people feel like?”

Seven pairs of eyes turn to him.

“Let me guess,” Richie says, swanning into the kitchen while Eddie cuts up carrots. “You packed for a week in case we got snowed in.”

“I thought it was a _possibility_ that we might as well be prepared for.”

“You know, you could’ve booked a place that _doesn’t_ get snow.”

“A weekend off in another big city,” Eddie says. “Perfect.”

Richie huffs a laugh, and mutters something that sounds like “The only two options.” Louder, he says, “Alright man. Put me to work in your doomsday prep kitchen.”

He has his playlist going, but Richie will pause it every so often in order to play a song he knows will pain Eddie. Right now, it’s a mashup of Love Shack and the theme from Psycho.

Eddie complains, long and loud, because it distracts him from the fact that Richie actually seems to know how to cook. Probably better than Eddie. Which isn’t a thing he ever thought was hot _before_ , but now he sees Richie chiffonade lettuce and his brain confirms: _Yep. Hot._

Eddie definitely spends a little too long looking, because Richie raises an eyebrow, gestures to his pile of lettuce, and says, “Let me guess. Too much seasoning?”

“So funny,” Eddie says, eyes back on his board. “You should do stand-up.” He starts chopping again. With a little too much fervour, apparently, because Richie takes a step closer, gestures at his face, and says, “You got a little…”

Eddie wipes frantically at his cheeks.

“Nope,” Richie says, “To the left. No, no, no, my left. _My_ left, Eddie.”

“Jesus Christ, Richie,” Eddie says, by their third minute of doing this. “Just get it for me.”

Richie pauses, a little dumbstruck, then deftly plucks a piece of carrot off Eddie’s cheek.

There’s another awkward pause. Then Richie chucks it into his mouth.

“Gross,” says Eddie, going back to chopping, throat still warm. “Gross, gross, gross.”

“It kind of is,” Richie says, making a face. “Like eating a cabinet. God, how many chemicals are in your aftershave?”

_Have another taste. Work it out._

Eddie shakes the thought off aggressively, and gets down some bowls.

Eddie gets a lot of compliments on the meal. He’s feeling too much of an (entirely unfair, entirely sexual) frustration to pass them on to the real chef.

Not that Richie gives a shit. He’s wholly invested in annoying Stan.

Eddie stops his foot, every time it edges towards Richie’s under the table.

And focusses on knocking back his wine.

Several hours later, everyone but Richie and Eddie have turned in.

“ _No_ ,” Eddie says emphatically, some of his wine sloshing out as he shoves it onto the table with a little bit too much force. “Crystal Skull is clearly the best!”

“The boulder chase, Eddie. The boulder chase.”

“ _Fuck_ your boulder chase!”

Eddie is grinning, and he doesn’t know why. But Richie is grinning too, so he figures it’s ok.

Richie nudges his glass over. “You wanna give me a taste of your tipsy juice?”

“Fuck you,” says Eddie, clutching his glass closer. “Get your own.”

“You saw that, right?” Richie says, looking up, either towards the heavens or Bev’s bedroom. “I tried to be the responsible friend.”

“You can be responsible by carrying me to bed,” Eddie says. _He thinks that’s a good line. His brain might be a little fuzzy right now, but yeah. He’s pretty sure that’s an incredibly sexy line._

“And _break my back_?” Richie says, in a voice that’s probably supposed to sound like Eddie. He gets up, and heads to Eddie’s side of the table. “C’mon. I’ll give you a hand.”

_He doesn’t say it in a sexy voice, which is a little disappointing. There are so many sexy ways to say “I’ll give you a hand,” and Richie just bypassed all of them._

It only really hits Eddie, how dizzy he is, when he stands up. There’s a hand on his back immediately.

“You gonna puke?”

“No. S’gross.”

Richie moves his hand to Eddie’s shoulder, and they trek up the stairs.

Eddie brushes his teeth, just about manages to put his PJs on the right way round, and comes out of the bathroom to see Richie putting a glass of water on his bedside table.

In his current state, the gesture kind of makes him want to cry.

_But that’s not the vibe. Sexy Eddie is the vibe. Although sexy Eddie is not proving particularly effective. Richie looks like he might be thinking about laundry._

Eddie sighs, and goes to tuck himself into bed while Richie hovers.

“Don’t sleep on your back,” Richie says, while doing finger-guns, bizarrely, and then he’s backing towards the door.

And Eddie panics. He’s thinking about the glass of water and the hand on his back and a million other little gestures. He’s thinking about the fact that there’s only 2 days left to see Richie, and he’s probably not going to get this wasted confidence again. He’s thinking about Richie moving on. And, in a voice which he is very aware is not at all sexy or smooth, asks, “Do you still love me?”

Richie blanches and stills. He opens his mouth for a second, like he’s going to answer. And then he just _nopes_ out of the room, flicking the switch along the way.

Eddie sits up in bed, looking out into the dark.

_Yeah. He’s pretty sure he fucked that one up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xx5IUyg9whQ) is the Love Shack/Psycho remix that Richie puts on in the kitchen.


	7. Chapter 7

Eddie wakes up with a pounding headache, and a powerful sense of dread.

He’s almost certain he said something about his increasingly embarrassing feelings last night, but he blanks whenever he tries to remember what happened afterwards.

It can’t be _good_. He’s pretty sure he would’ve remembered if Richie’s response was _Great! Let’s fuck as soon as you’re sober enough to not puke on the sheets._

He thinks he has to ask, even though the thought of it makes his hangover nausea triple. He can’t just let it float there in his brain, Schrodinger’s tension headache.

Maybe once the white wine haze dissipates.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” Bev calls out as soon as he makes his way to the dining table.

He winces, and flips her the bird.

Richie gives him a slightly pained smile. Eddie narrows his eyes, trying to figure out if it’s _Sorry about your hangover_ ¸ or _Sorry about your unrequited crush._ He gives up, sits down between Mike and Bev, and drops his head to the table. He thinks maybe the pine will refresh him, a little, but all it smells of is laminate.

There’s a recurrent droning sound coming from the kitchen. Ben isn’t sitting at the table, so he can only assume he’s making his morning smoothie. He should probably ask for one, replenish his micronutrients, but all he really wants to consume is coffee.

He looks up when there’s a _tap_ on the table, and sees Bev, mind-reader, has brought him a mug. 

“Thank you,” he croaks, and takes a too-hot sip.

He’s feeling a little better around midday. Ben, Bill, Mike and Stan are going for a hike, and they invite Eddie along. He says yes, thinking the fresh air will be good for him. Then he starts wondering if it’s tactical, Bev and Richie, able to talk alone in the house. He’s just about to change his mind, _Actually, you know what, I think I’ll stay here and eavesdrop,_ but Mike’s already pulling a beanie over his head and bundling him out the door.

It’s fucking freezing. It’s not too bad when they’re walking, but Stan makes them stop whenever he hears a single fucking chirp, and Eddie starts to feel the hypothermia in his fingers. They picnic at the lookout, rapidly packing up when a white snowflake lands on Bill’s beanie.

Bev’s sitting alone on the couch with a book when they get back. Eddie frowns. He can’t decide if that’s a good sign or not. He thinks he’s driving himself a little insane with this.

“Where’s Richie?” he asks, on impulse.

“His room, I think,” Bev answers.

Eddie heads up the stairs and down the corridor, knocking on Richie’s door. He stops himself by the eighth knock.

Richie opens the door. He looks tired, and a little dishevelled, but the corner of his mouth ticks up a little when he sees Eddie.

Eddie’s so frazzled he’s about to take that as a go-ahead, say fuck the talking, just kiss Richie and face the consequences. Then Richie adds. “Have you seen your hair? It’s beyond windswept. It looks like you’ve been fucked by a hairdryer.”

Eddie scowls. He wishes he looked in a mirror before he decided to live in the moment.

He runs a hand roughly over his head. He doesn’t know how to start talking like this. Needs to be moving around to let his mouth run freely. “Do you want to go for a walk? Not a hike, just. To the lake or something?”

“No thanks,” Richie says, smile getting a little tenser. “I could hear you complaining about how cold it was from upstairs.”

“Ok.” Eddie says. “Well. Can you let me in?”

Richie blinks like he wants to say _no_ , then steps back, and goes to sit on the end of his bed.

Eddie closes the door behind him. He folds his arms, walking the painfully short length of Richie’s room.

He knows it makes Richie anxious when he paces, but hey. This isn’t particularly fun for Eddie either.

“I’m sorry. I was. Beyond wasted, last night.”

Richie shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “You don’t need to apologise-”

“Did I say something? About us?” It barrels out of him.

Richie’s face goes slack. Then he nods, eyeing the wall beyond Eddie.

“Shit.” Eddie’s arms pull tighter against his torso. “That was really a conversation I meant to have sober.”

Richie shrugs again, looking at the floor. “It’s the same answer either way.” He pauses, then says, “I uh. I wish I could tell you that things will change. But I don’t think they will.”

 _Of course things can’t change. Eddie's life hasn't fundamentally changed in 20 years. If hunting a demon clown couldn’t change that, nothing will._ By the time he blinks back tears, his fingers are starting to shake. It feels like he’s cracked a glass window, and he’s trying to keep all the pieces in place by hand. “Got it,” he says bluntly. “I. I, um-”

Some morbid piece of him wants to know the details. When he found out his medication was fake, he wanted to know all the chemicals he was breathing in. Now he wants to know what’s _not_ there. Did Richie stop feeling it? Did he just decide that Eddie was too much work? Too indecisive, too flighty?

“I need some air,” he says, to stop himself asking _._ Information-hunting has never been a healthy habit for him.

He rugs up and makes his way out. It’s snowing heavily now.

Snowflakes drip down his neck and gusts fly up under his jacket. It helps to be so cold you can’t focus on anything else.

He makes his way up the hill, trying to remember which way it is to the lake

There’s a white plateau that just goes on and on and on, soothing in its monotony.

It’s a little harder to find when everything’s covered in white. He makes his way down the hill, step by cautious step, then turns.

After 30 minutes, it’s pretty clear he took a wrong turn.

_Doesn’t matter. Embrace exhaustion. He did it all the time when he was with Myra. Work out until you can’t think._

He turns around, but it’s freezing, and his muscles ache, and there’s an oak right there, waiting for Eddie to lean on it.

He goes over. Sits down, curls up until he’s semi-foetal, dipping his hands under his jacket. Dips his head down so his breathing into the warm of his scarf and not the icy cool breeze.

Rests his eyes, for a minute.

Slideshow-like, he remembers being 13, making shoddy snowmen which quickly became ammunition. Shoving snow down Richie’s jacket. Feeling wild and clandestine and free.

Someone’s lined up against his back, and there’s an arm squeezing just a little too tight around his middle. It’s very warm. But nice.

“Richie?” he murmurs, half-awake.

“There he is!” comes Richie’s voice. But he’s pretty sure it’s coming from the other side of him.

He blinks his eyes open, his bedroom coming into focus. Richie is sitting on a chair next to the bed, beaming.

 _Someone_ is still draped around him.

“Eddie?” comes Mike’s voice from behind him. “You feeling ok, man?”

Eddie jerks forward, and turns to look at Mike, rapidly taking in the rest of the situation. “…Why am I _naked?_ Why are _you_ naked?”

Mike blinks at him, nonplussed, and says, “We’re wearing underwear.”

Richie, who, apparently, is seeing the humour in this situation now that Eddie is conscious, says, “You’re hurting his feelings. Obviously he doesn’t have _Ben’s_ body, but-”

“Ben’s all glamour muscles,” Mike interrupts. “I worked on a farm.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Eddie says, looking between the two of them. “Why am I half-dressed and being spooned?”

“C’mon Eds, you know the treatment for hypothermia,” Richie says. “Bev wanted a doggy-pile, but people kept falling out of the bed. So Mike volunteered his hot little bod.”

Eddie blinks. “I don’t have hypothermia.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, “Thanks to Mike’s hot little bod.”

“Can you stop saying that phrase?” Eddie pleads.

“Hot little bod?”

“I’m literally taller than you,” Mike pipes up. 

Eddie plants his face in the pillow and takes two deep breaths. Then he sits up. “Ok. Thank you, Mike, for…the spooning. But I’m plenty warm now. In fact, I think I’m _over_ heating.”

Mike gets the picture, squeezes Eddie’s shoulder and hops out of bed. Eddie watches him pull his jeans on, before he realises what he’s doing. He jerks his head towards Richie, who is definitely also watching Mike get dressed.

Richie’s eyes bounce back to him. “What?”

He wonders, for a second if he should ask who found him. But he’d rather not know. He’d rather just believe it was Richie looking out for him. Whatever the truth is.

Eddie huffs a breath out. “Nothing,” he says, laying back. “I just expected another crack about my hair.”

Richie barks a laugh, then says, “It does look like a pile-up, but I was a little distracted by the fact that you smell like Mrs K’s-“

Bev pushes the door open, beaming when she sees Eddie slapping Richie’s shoulder. “Eddie! We’re so glad you’re ok. The doctor’s on his way, did Richie tell you?”

“Richie didn’t say anything helpful.”

“Old habits die hard,” Bev says, and puts a bowl of soup on the bedside table.

The doctor tells him he’s fine, and makes him promise not to go exploring new places in the snow, which Eddie finds unnecessary, and more than a little patronising. But he grits his teeth and smiles, and thanks him.

Everyone gradually filters out of his room.

Except for Richie, who just sits there, going on his phone, showing Eddie the occasional Twitter feud.

“You gonna sleep here?” Eddie asks, only half-joking.

Richie’s eyes dart up. “…Would that be ok?” he asks. “I just wanna make sure you don’t turn into the Ice Queen at midnight or something.” Eddie waits as he inevitably follows up with, “My bad. Happened already.”

“S’fine,” Eddie says, with a roll of his eyes. “As long as you’re not planning on sleeping in that chair.”

Richie blinks, and says, “I guess I could bring the mattress up-”

“Take the bed, dipshit.”

Richie raises an eyebrow. “Eddie.”

Eddie flushes in anger. He’s not trying to cop a feel, he’s trying to make sure Richie doesn’t get scoliosis. He grabs some of the pillows scattered around the bed, lining them up in a wall down the middle of the duvet. “You happy now?”

Richie gives him a strange look. “…Ok,” he says, eventually. “I’m gonna get changed.”

Eddie’s asleep by the time he returns.


	8. Chapter 8

Eddie makes the mistake of waking up first in the morning.

Richie’s hand is under the pillow. There’s a disgusting little puddle of drool by his mouth. His stubble’s starting to grow, and his fringe is curling over his forehead.

Eddie spends a long time just looking and wanting, and looking and wanting.

Until Richie takes a snuffled breath in, and opens his eyes. “Morning, Eds,” he says in a croaky voice. Which isn’t fair. He shouldn’t get to do that when it’s 8 am and they’re in bed.

“I should get to say it,” Eddie says, on impulse. He’s feeling the surge of bravery you get when you have nothing left to lose.

Richie blinks at him, then yawns, half-covering his mouth with a hand. “You did wake up first.”

“What? No, not that.”

Richie raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“You _know_ ,” Eddie says petulantly. “The. You know. You got to say it. I was drunk, and I don’t even _remember_ saying it, so I should get another go. For closure.”

“…I got to say it?” Richie asks, confused and sleepy, eyes blinking shut.

“I love you!” Eddie says, frustrated.

Richie’s eyes open immediately. He looks very awake now. He looks at Eddie searchingly, although Eddie’s face is probably pretty blurry sans glasses, then, in an incredibly awkward tone, says, “Love you too, bud.”

Eddie huffs, feeling catharsis turn to irritation. “Fuck you. Can you just let me have this, without playing it off? I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“Eddie,” Richie says, sitting up in bed, fumbling for his glasses on the side table and slipping them on. “Wh-Since _when_?”

Eddie frowns, sitting up. None of this should be a surprise. “I don’t know! Since a month ago? Since always? It’s not a black and white thing, Richie.”

“Forgive me for not understanding the subtle complexities of your brain, but you told me I was making you uncomfortable _two days ago_ so. I’m a little confused.”

Eddie stares at him. “There’s no way I said that. Are you sure it wasn’t a joke that sailed over your head? That happens a lot.”

“It wasn’t a joke!” Richie’s pitch heightens. “You were drunk, but. It wasn’t a joke.”

 _Ah. The frightening opportunity to know exactly how Drunk Eddie makes his feelings known._ “What did I say, exactly?”

Richie shifts, frowning a little. “I mean, maybe you didn’t use the exact words, but there was an _implication-_ ”

“What were the exact words, Richie?!”

Richie frowns again, like he’s turning something over in his brain. “…You asked if I still loved you.”

“Well, _gee_ ,” Eddie says, frustratedly chopping one hand against the other. “I wonder why I would’ve asked that. Real fuckin’ mystery as to why _that_ would be _important_ for me to _know.”_

“Ok,” Richie says, starting to smile and clearly trying to hide it. “I mean, you could’ve clarified a little.”

Eddie sighs. “I thought I did. I thought I told you. And the next day, when you said nothing was going to change-”

“Yeah,” Richie interrupts, “See _I_ was talking about-”

“Yeah, _now_ I know what you were talking about,” Eddie says, kicking at his legs.

Richie grins at him, big and toothy.

Eddie feels his heart ping like a racquetball against his ribs. Then Richie starts to lean in, and Eddie remembers where they are, and puts a hand up against his shoulder. _His big, broad shoulder. Fuck._

Richie raises an eyebrow.

“Uh.” Eddie says. “The last time I tried to have sex, I had a panic attack. Just so you know.”

A series of expressions cross Richie’s face, and Eddie is a little worried that he’s going to connect the dots to the last time Eddie _called_ him about a panic attack. But he lands on a tentative smile. “Pretty presumptuous about my intentions there, Eds.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says. “I’m sure you’re celibate for life. Just thought I’d mention it since. We’re in a bed.”

“And this pillow wall does _nothing_ ,” Richie says, plucking one of the pillows between them. “Real shoddy manufacturing.”

Eddie huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. There’s a second of silence where he thinks, _Fuck. What happens now?_

“Hey,” Richie says, after a few seconds. “Is kissing ok? Are we good with kissing?” _We._ As if this is some kind of joint neurosis, and not just Eddie being crazy.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Obviously.” He doesn’t know, actually. He’s a little worried that he’s gone with denial for so long that he can’t process anything else, that even Richie’s mouth on his will make his throat close up. He really didn’t think things through beyond the fantasy, didn’t picture how he’d react in real life.

But he still wants it.

Eddie’s too anxious to look anywhere other than his hands, but he hears Richie shuffle forward. And then he’s planting a big, wet, smacking kiss on Eddie’s cheek, the same way he would at age 13.

“Stop,” Eddie says, shoving at him, trying to back bite his laughter. “Jesus, you’re an animal.”

“Oh baby, don’t you know it,” Richie says, drawing a full-bodied snort from Eddie.

Richie lifts a hand to his cheek. Pivots him gently, so they’re facing. Presses a kiss to the wrinkles of his forehead, then ducks down to brush his lips against Eddie’s.

Eddie thinks, _I could’ve been doing this for months._

Eddie thinks, _I can do this for decades._

Eddie thinks, _His morning breath is atrocious._

Eddie thinks, _I’m never forgetting again._

He reaches his hand up to the nape of Richie’s neck, tangles it in the warm curls there, something to ground himself.

Richie goes back in, swiping a tongue against the crease, and pulling at Eddie’s bottom lip with his teeth.

Eddie makes a sound. _It’s not a_ _moan_ , _ok, it’s just a sound that he makes because his brain’s a little broken._

Richie vibrates in a way that Eddie can tell is his silent laughing mode.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Just shut up.”

“No, I like it!” Richie says. “You were just acting so innocent, before-”

Eddie pulls at his hair, tries to drag him into a kiss to shut him up, but he thinks he pulls a little too hard, because Richie makes a brief, bitten-off whimper of a second, and his eyes shut.

“Sorry.” He loosens his hold. “Uh-”

“S’fine,” Richie says, looking at Eddie now. And now Eddie can see his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are dark.

Eddie tugs at his hair again. Lighter, this time.

Richie’s bottom lip drops for a second, before he’s closing his mouth again. Swallowing, Adam’s apple bouncing.

“Like a marionette,” Eddie murmurs, but _that_ tears up the same memory for both of them. They look at each other, Richie gives an exaggerated shudder, and Eddie huffs a laugh.

“Your dirty talk could use some work, man,” Richie says.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, and starts mouthing at Richie’s shoulder as an apology, reaching a hand under his shirt, and thumbing at his happy trail all the while. He hasn’t been acquainted with Richie’s happy trail for very long, but he’s becoming a big fan.

“Ok!” Richie says, a minute in, when Eddie’s barely even made a mark on his shoulder. “I think that marks the end of kissing time, and the start of Richie shower time.”

Eddie looks at him askance. “Really? Cause of the clown thing?”

“No. Cause of the ‘Richie’s-gonna-start-rutting-against-furniture-if-you-keep-doing-that’ thing.”

“Gross,” Eddie says, feeling very, very pleased. “Wait,” he says. as Richie gets up off the bed. “What if, hypothetically, sex was on the table.”

“Hypothetically,” Richie says, and looks him up and down. “Hypothetically, I’d say.” He closes his eyes, and breathes out. “I’d say maybe you should make that decision when you’re not horny, and I’ve had a shower in the last 24 hours. And give it more than 10 minutes thought.”

He’s probably right. Nonetheless, Eddie yells “You’re the horny one!” after him as he leaves.

“Sure am!” Richie yells back cheerily.

“It is EIGHT AM in the MORNING,” comes Stan’s voice from the room to the left of them.

Eddie grins, flushing, and hides his face under the pillow.

For a minute there, he’d kind of forgotten anyone else existed.


End file.
